


499

by athena_crikey



Series: Superglue [5]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: A/B/O, AU, Drama, Family, Grown Children, Inherited traits, Love, M/M, Tension, endings and beginnings, floor master Hisoka, inherited assholery, no-nen Gon, progeny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:14:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27427750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Hisoka calls his children back to Heaven's Arena on the eve of his 500th kill. Not, as it turns out, for a celebration.
Relationships: Gon Freecs/Hisoka
Series: Superglue [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1836991
Comments: 24
Kudos: 151





	1. Father's Little Girl

The Arena is exactly as she remembers it: height and majesty on the outside and plush, pristine surroundings inside to hide the blood and gore. In the upper reaches of the tower it’s all gilt and velvet, a glamour to cover the ugliness. It was only when she left the tower that Fey learned such opulence isn’t the way of the world outside, that even her very excellent boarding school doesn’t feature granite counters and marble floors. She doesn’t mind; unlike most of the girls in her class, she’s never cared about money. Perhaps because it’s always seemed so easily attainable. She could easily earn her annual expenses in the Arena in a week – if it weren’t for Hisoka.

It’s Dad who keeps in contact, who emails her regularly and calls her on the weekend and who sends her bizarre but thoughtful presents apparently at random. _Thinking of you_ , is the usual note he includes, which can only mean that she’s often on his mind. 

Hisoka doesn’t write, doesn’t text or video-call. He used to come to her school in a fancy sports car to take her out for drives or shopping for clothes that suited his tastes more than hers. But that had been when she was younger, before she had come to recognize his callousness, his cruelty. And before she had seen its reflection in herself. 

There’s no one she can talk to about it. Dad is really approachable, but he’s Hisoka’s mate and loyal to the death; she can’t imagine explaining her feelings to him. And Sotto’s only interested in his next big challenge; he’s been free-climbing his way around the world without Nen, supported by his work as a Hunter. The girls at school only know Hisoka from his charming news interviews, and from his fan-sites. He has idol status in the dorms, and his daughter’s opinion of him is worthless compared to his effortlessly charismatic interviews on Arena Daily. 

So she can’t help but wonder at herself for accepting his request – or his order, really – to return to the Arena for what will be his 500th kill as Floor Master. It’s not her home anymore – will never be her home again. This is his realm, the seat of his power, and she wants nothing to do with it. 

_But you still came_ , points out an extremely irritating thought somewhere in the back of her mind as she rides the elevator up to the private floors. She stares at her reflection in the elevator mirror – tall, thin, with red-gold hair falling in carefully layered waves around her face and a smattering of freckles on her pale skin. Green long-sleeved shirt, well-tailored black skirt nipped in at the waist. She looks fragile, delicate. 

Appearances can be deceiving. 

She reaches her parents’ floor and steps off the elevator and onto the thick red carpet. She can smell Hisoka, his alpha scent strong in her nostrils. Her alpha instincts, entirely separate from her thoughts, classify him as pack, and relax. Dad’s scent is less pervasive, softer but just as welcoming. And there’s a hint of sage and sorrel; Sotto. Her brow crinkles. Is Hisoka arranging a family reunion?

The door is the same firm oak she remembers; she stands in front of it for a moment, gathering her thoughts. Her instincts are telling her she’s safe, she’s home, but her thoughts are a whirlwind – confusion, suspicion, anticipation. She raises her hand and knocks. 

The door is thrown open almost immediately, and then Dad’s scent is enveloping her even as he pulls her in, his body warm around hers. When he backs away his smile is wide, infectious, his eyes dancing. “I’ve missed you,” he says. 

“You should come visit,” she replies. 

“I should.” He pulls the door open all the way and escorts her in. It’s late summer and she has no coat to shed, just dumps her backpack on the floor by the door and looks around. 

Sotto’s lounging on one of the long leather sofas, his head raised to see who’s just entered. Hisoka is in the kitchen, pouring out drinks. 

“Fey-Fey,” calls Sotto, sitting up. He’s lean but strong-looking, his arms lightly corded and his face healthily tanned. His tank-top and jeans are scruffy, his hair a bird’s nest. “You came!”

“Don’t call me that,” she replies, stalking over to stand above him looking down. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”

“Hey! Is that any way to talk to your older brother?”

“It’s how I talk to all the guys who spend their time focusing on nothing but stupid physical achievements.”

“Ouch,” says Sotto, hand on his heart. He opens his mouth to say something else, but his eyes flicker over his shoulder and he pauses.

“Mm, I wonder if you think the same of me,” purrs Hisoka, suddenly behind her, his steps silent on the wood floor. She fists her hands to keep herself from spinning around. 

“Pretty much,” she answers stiffly, without turning. 

“It’s such a delight to have a young academic in the house,” he says, coming around and handing Sotto a highball glass; there’s another in his hand which he sips. “There’s juice for you, Miss Straight-A Student.”

Dad crosses over to throw an arm over her shoulder and lead her onto the other sofa. “Play nice,” he says, without making it clear who he’s addressing. 

He’s aged a little since she last saw him in person, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and a little looseness in the flesh beneath his chin. It makes him look kind, loving. Hisoka, as always, looks about twenty-five and cut-glass perfect. Nen slows the aging process; she has no idea how old he really is, other than the fact that he has a twenty-three year-old son.

“Tell us about school,” Dad says, propping his feet up on the coffee table. Hisoka perches himself on the arm of the opposite sofa, his golden eyes watching her – just as Sotto’s are. The two of them have never been much alike, but with the twin yellow eyes on her she feels for once the tie that joins them. 

She tells them a little about school, about her advanced classes and her plans to graduate next year. 

“You’re only fifteen,” points out Sotto. 

“And you were twelve when you become a Hunter. You don’t think I can handle university at sixteen?”

“I dunno, I hear those morning courses are deadly.”

She rolls her eyes. “Unlike you, I get up before noon. And besides, it’s just a stepping stone.”

“What to, pray tell?” murmurs Hisoka. 

She stares him straight back in the eyes, head held high. “Law. I’m going to become a lawyer.”

For a moment he blinks; then he laughs – open mouthed like a jackal, the sound rough-edged and ugly. 

“What?” she demands, flushing hotly, anger heating quickly to a boil. 

He runs his free hand through his hair, his lips curled upwards. “Trust you to find a respectable profession that’s every bit as nasty as the ones you refused.”

She hardens, indignant and insulted, and feels Dad’s hand on her arm. “We would all be proud to have a lawyer in the family,” he says mildly. “You’ll be the first to finish real schooling, you know. If you want to go further, that’s great.”

Fey glances at him and sees calm pride in his face. But there’s something else there too, something harder. Something she hasn’t seen before. She can’t place it. 

Dad looks up at Hisoka, and she sees it more clearly now. Strain. “Isn’t it?” he asks. 

Hisoka’s eyes snap to his and linger there a moment; his smile, sharp as a new gravestone, widens. “Certainly,” he agrees, tone just slightly humorous. 

“I don’t care about your approval,” she tells him flatly. His eyes shift to hers from Dad’s and she’s struck by the full force of his intensity, a strength that Dad weathers effortlessly but that makes her catch her breath. Still, she doesn’t back down. 

“No,” murmurs Hisoka. “It’s funny, how you stomp your feet in protest of me. But your protestations won’t change your parentage, pup. You remain my daughter. And like a good child, you come when called.”

She makes to stand and Dad catches her elbow. “Don’t,” he says softly.

“I’m not your puppet,” she snarls at Hisoka. “And I’m not going to stay if you’re going to be an asshole.”

“You would rather play happy families?” 

“I would rather know what you want.”

He takes a long drink from his glass, the pale line of his throat flashing in the bright apartment’s lights. His jaw is strong and clean, his Adam’s apple a jagged curve in the strong muscles of his neck. “That’s simple enough. I fight tomorrow. My 500th kill. An occasion for celebration, I thought.”

Beside her she feels Dad stiffen, but he says nothing. 

“Not all of us worship death,” Fey says. “Or cruelty,” she adds.

Hisoka stares back at her evenly and she feels herself growing hot. 

“It’s a pretty big achievement,” says Sotto from where he sits in the centre of the other couch, breaking the tension. 

“Yeah; he’s left most successful assassins in his dust, not to mention serial killers, terrorists and STDs.”

Hisoka snorts; Sotto winces. 

“Fey-Fey,” he begins.

“Fey,” she replies sternly. 

He sighs, tilting his head to his side, his uneven hair brushing against his forehead. “When did you get so argumentative?”

“Surely a desirable trait in a lawyer,” suggests Hisoka, voice cloying. She ignores him. 

“When did you decide to give him a pass for all his BS?” 

“We’re family. You’re talking like someone looking in from the outside. But you know the truth.” Despite his hawk-yellow eyes, Sotto’s always been much more like Dad than Hisoka. Always the calm one, the pacifist. It drives her up the wall that he would rather let things slide than push back against them.

Her toe taps a sharp rhythm on the floor. “The fact that his opponents make their own choices, you mean? Or the fact that he risks his own life? It’s all rigged. Those muscle-heads are too stupid to see anything other than the glory that awaits. They’re right to call him the Grim Reaper. Death never loses.”

Dad shifts against her, pulling his feet down from the coffee table. “That’s enough, you two. It’s been ages since we all got together; we’re not going to fight. Fey, go get a drink and we’ll toast to your and Sotto’s homecoming. Your father’s making dinner.”

_My father_ , she thinks, as she rises and stalks past him towards the fridge. _My father, the Grim Reaper._

  
***  


The rest of the afternoon and dinner pass without more than the ordinary amount of friction, Hisoka cooking shrimp jambalaya and the family sitting down to eat the steaming dish while the sun is still high in the sky.

After dinner Hisoka goes to train in the gym and Dad goes with him, leaving Sotto and Fey to do the dishes. Since they were old enough to help out Dad hasn’t had the maid service in; he insisted that they grow up able to cook and clean and take care of themselves. 

Tonight she washes while Sotto dries, the hot water reddening her pale hands. 

“You don’t always have to scrap with him, you know,” says her brother mildly as he dries some forks with a linen dishtowel. 

“You don’t always have to roll over, but you do. He almost got you killed.”

Sotto shrugs. “ _I’ve_ almost gotten me killed. I don’t blame him. He can be hard, but he protects the pack. He protects Dad.”

“Dad can look after himself. So can you – and I.”

“You’ve got nothing to prove, you know. Not to me, not to Dad.”

She glares at Sotto as she drops a plate into the water-filled sink; it clinks as it hits the bottom. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sotto lifts a spoon off the drying mat and buffs it, manner easy. “You don’t make it hard to see, Sis. You’re so hard on him because you take after him – and that scares you. You don’t have to be like him if you don’t want to be, but don’t pretend it’s all about him.”

“I’m nothing like him.” The protest sounds over-loud even in her own ears. “I don’t play with people, and I don’t kill.”

“Father’s not defined by his death count.”

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter.”

Sotto ignores this. “Why do you think he’s called us home?”

She tosses a knife at Sotto; he catches it easily. “So he can gloat. 500 deaths, and no one can ever press charges. Even Uncle Killua’s family couldn’t get away with that.”

Sotto dries the knife and puts it away. Takes the plate she hands him and dries that too. Then: “Dad’s worried.”

“What about?”

“About Father, obviously. The two of them aren’t right. Father’s goading you like there’s no tomorrow, and Dad’s stiff when he forgets to smile.”

“Well, I suppose Hisoka _is_ getting up there. He must be fifty by now, surely? Is he slowing down or something? He looks the same as always.”

“Of course he does; you know it’s Texture Surprise. He’ll look twenty-five until the day he dies.”

“Then maybe they’re having a fight.”

Sotto brushes his hair out of his eyes; his damp fingers leave a bead of water on the green bangs. “Yeah; right. When was the last time that happened? Dad lets Father have whatever he wants as long as it doesn’t matter to him; if it does, well, he’s got Father wrapped around his little finger. They haven’t had a serious fight since before you were born.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. But it’s making me nervous too.” 

“There are three Hunters on this floor. What could you have to worry about?” She pulls out the last plate, hands it to Sotto matter-of-factly, and pulls out the plug on the sink. “Don’t let Dad get you down. He’s probably just fussing over Hisoka like he always does.”

Sotto glances at her. “Careful – you’ll sound jealous.”

“I’m perfectly happy. But I’ll be happier when all the horrible pomp and circumstance is done and Hisoka’s crowned himself with his bloody crown and it’s _over_.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” says Sotto blandly.

  
***  


Dad comes in to see her that night while she’s unpacking her few things into her old childhood dresser, now dusty inside. The room was never a little girl’s, was never filled with pink bows and princess clothes. She had been a tomboy from the start, following in Hisoka’s steps and learning young how to throw knives and crush windpipes.

She had been Father’s Little Girl, until the day she woke up and saw him for what he was. Saw herself for what she was becoming. Sotto had been long-gone by then, a fully paid-up Hunter off exploring the world, and Dad had been perfectly happy so long as she was happy – which she had been. Happy in her austerity, in her clinical evaluation of everything around her, in her own strength. 

In Hisoka’s approval. 

“We both love you very much, you know,” he says, sitting on her bed while she smooths the wrinkles out of a shirt. “I know you’re not very happy with your father right now, but it would be nice if you could make an effort.”

He sounds tired. She looks over and sees his bright eyes shining in a tight face, his forehead lined, his skin pale. 

“I’m not the one out there killing people for fun,” she says, and regrets it immediately when Dad’s hands tighten on his knees. He’s always had big strong hands, but throughout her childhood they were warm and soft, always there to catch her when she fell or lift her when she needed it. “I don’t understand why you make excuses for him,” she says, looking away. 

“Because I love him,” says Dad, simply. “And because I’ve never been in a position to judge. Everyone in this family has it in them to be cruel, Fey. It’s who we are. Hisoka and I tried to give you a life where you could be free from that, free from the brokenness that defined us when we were young. In an important sense, we’ve succeeded – you’re both your own people, and much better adjusted than we were. But your brother has a little too much of me in him to ever be truly happy settled down. And you have too much of your father to forgive others their mistakes.”

“I’m not like him,” she says for the second time that evening. 

“Sweetheart, you can be whoever you want to be. But whatever life you make for yourself, you’ll always be his daughter. Try to be proud of that.”

“You’re not his apologist, Dad.”

“No. But legally – and culturally – he’s done nothing to apologize for. He’s found a way to please his nature that has allowed us all to grow as a family. And he’s stuck with it for a long time. For the two of you.”

“No one asked him to be a Floor Master. If he doesn’t want to do it anymore, he should quit.”

Dad’s big hands press furrows into his knees. “It’s not that easy,” he says quietly. “To walk away from this life, this security… He’s not popular. While the two of you were little, this was the safest life we could offer.”

“Well, we’re not little anymore. I’m going to university next year and Sotto’s off climbing mountains with just his hands. We don’t need your protection.”

“I know.” The way he says it, the calm, dead certainty makes her turn. 

“Is something wrong, Dad?”

For the first time in her life, she sees a false smile on his face. “Things are changing, sweetheart.”

“What things?”

He shakes his head. “Never mind. It’s – never mind.” He stands up, bed creaking. “I’m glad you came. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she says, puzzled. “Good night.”

Dad walks out and closes the door behind him. Fey presses her fingers into the shirt beneath her hand. Sotto was right. Something’s wrong.

  
***  


She gets up early and makes breakfast, something she’s always enjoyed doing but hasn’t had the opportunity to do while living at boarding school. Dad joins her after she’s finished making the pancake batter and he chops up fruit and finds some confectioner’s sugar.

Hisoka appears before Sotto, his hair still damp from the shower, his face clean of make-up. “Mm, how domestic,” he comments, hooking out a chair, and sits while Dad serves him a plate and a glass of juice. She notices Dad’s fingers linger over his as he hands over the juice, smells the brief, strong flare of possession from Hisoka. 

“You haven’t asked about the fight,” comments Hisoka as he leisurely cuts his sugar-coated pancakes into slices with a grace it took her years to learn. 

Fey shrugs. “That’s because I’m not interested in it. We all know what’s going to happen.”

“Mm, so confident in your dear father.” 

She glances at him, at the sharp crook of his wrist as he holds his knife and the intensity in his beaten-gold eyes. Despite his wry tone there’s no smile on his lips.

She will never understand Hisoka the way Dad does, will never have the instinctive knowledge of why he does what he does or the insight into what he’s about to do. But she knows him second best, and she knows when he’s hiding something. 

“You’re not planning something special, are you?”

Beside her, Dad stops in the middle of loading blueberries onto a slice of pancake. One of them rolls off his plate and over the edge of the table onto the floor, alone and forgotten. 

Hisoka’s eyes narrow in consideration. “Such as?” he purrs. 

“Oh, I don’t know. Something even more gruesome and gory than usual?”

“It’s not the spilt blood and split bones I adore. It’s Death’s cold touch, so close, so present. There is nothing more intoxicating than staring into that very real void.”

Dad puts down his cutlery silently on his placemat and stands, disappearing into the kitchen. She ignores him. “What you really mean is that you enjoy sending others into that void.”

Hisoka tilts his head to the side; his eyes are sharp and watchful, and for once not amused. “I wonder how you have come to your self-righteousness,” he says, voice quiet. “To be so sure of yourself is a feat indeed.”

“I learned from the best,” she retorts, stabbing her fork into a slice of pancake. “You can’t intimidate me anymore.”

“Pup,” says Hisoka, voice mellow but with an undercurrent of steel, “you’ve never seen me try.”

Dad returns, putting both hands down meaningfully on the table. “That’s enough you two. We’re not going to fight today.” He looks from Fey to Hisoka, his eyes hard. He sits down deliberately between them, a walking détente. “Fey, when are your university applications due?”

He holds her eye, the magnetism of his personality pinning her down. She’s never been able to refuse Dad. 

By the time Sotto gets up and joins them, they’re deep in a discussion about the merits of a small but focused university versus a big-name brand.

  
***  


Fey hasn’t attended that many of Hisoka’s matches, hasn’t attended any since she started at boarding school at age twelve. She comes with the family down to the private entrance for the Floor Master, equipped with a comfortable lounge, a TV showing the gathering crowd in the arena, and a small spread of food and drink.

But they’re not here to stay. Hisoka spends his last minutes before a fight alone. Sotto gives him a tight hug, almost but not quite as tall as him, and Hisoka whispers something in his ear that Fey doesn’t catch. She’s next, suddenly nervous and aware of Dad’s eyes on her. 

“Nothing to say?” murmurs Hisoka, staring down at her. 

She opens her mouth to bite out a terse rejoinder, then swallows it. “Be kind,” she says, simply, and accepts his kiss on her cheek – his lips are cool and rubbery as always. As he pulls away his mouth passes her ear, his breath hot on her skin. 

“Be fierce,” he replies. 

Dad comes last, weaving his fingers together with Hisoka’s and stepping right up to him. They fit together perfectly, like they were made for each other. He raises his chin and kisses his mate fiercely, passionately. When they break away there’s a quiet, low keening. 

For the life of her she’s not sure which of them makes it. 

Dad steps back, Hisoka’s fingers slipping away from his. 

“I’ll see you on the other side,” says Hisoka, voice for once not cloying, not mocking or purring or otherwise diminishing. Just strong: certain. 

Dad nods. “Always.”

And then they’re leaving, leaving Hisoka behind in his green room, and none of them looks back. That’s not who they are.

  
***  


The seats are front-row, of course. Dad stares into the distance, stony and silent, so she and Sotto chat about school and his latest rocky conquest, then when that vein runs dry about the competitor.

Fey hasn’t bothered to look him up; when she was little she would spend hours analysing Hisoka’s matches, his opponents and their skills. Now she knows there’s no point. They always lose. 

“His name is Rye,” says Sotto, showing her a picture of a tall man with long silver hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. “He’s good. Really good. He’s never lost a match, and he’s stayed on the 200th floor fighting other competitors for almost three years.”

She shrugs. “What’s his Nen ability?”

“I don’t know. No one does. He hasn’t used it, or if he has no one’s seen it. That’s part of what makes him so dangerous. It’s like he’s been waiting for this fight.”

“Lots of people train for years to fight Hisoka. It always ends the same way.”

“I think there’s more to him than meets the eye. Father knows that, but he accepted the fight anyway.”

She leans back in her seat, crossing her legs. “A Floor Master can’t deny a legitimate request without giving up his title. Of course he accepted. Dad said himself that they’ve relied on his position for years.” 

_He also agreed it isn’t important anymore_ , points out that irritating voice in the back of her brain. She shakes her head. “Whatever. No one beats the Grim Reaper. It’ll be over soon enough.”

But she can’t help but notice the way Dad’s jaw stiffens at her words.

  
***  


The match begins with a light show. Like the rest of the Arena the theatricality of the matches hasn’t changed, the introduction of the competitors with smoke and lasers. They’ve installed real fire in place of the LCD screens on the lower levels, Hisoka’s somehow coloured green while Rye’s flames are the usual violent red. The challenger is introduced first; Rye appears out of a burst of red smoke in a pair of tight brown leggings and a green tunic tied around the waist with a leather belt; he has gauntlets on his forearms and a knife in his boot. He doesn’t show a trace of nervousness as he walks straight into the ring.

Hisoka appears with a cocky salute to the audience, his face as shown on the Jumbotron relaxed and amused. He joins Rye in the centre of the arena where the uniformed ref announces the rules to them. This close to the concrete platform Fey can hear his words without the announcer’s repetition. 

“Death match. No time limit. No forfeits. You begin on my mark.”

Both men nod and the ref backs up to give them space. The crowd is tense, quiet in anticipation of the violence to come. Fey feels a shiver run down her spine; despite her firm belief in the inevitability of the outcome of this match, she’s not immune to the tension in the arena. 

“And… begin!” shouts the ref, throwing his hand up. 

Rye moves first, lunging forward so quickly he nearly seems to disappear. Hisoka reacts in the skin of a second, meeting his onslaught and deflecting his blows and kicks.

Even having grown up in his shadow, even having been trained by him, Hisoka’s speed and sleekness of movement are startling to Fey. This is what she could have become, but she turned away from that path and she’ll never now have his grace of movement, nor his absolutely brutal ability to predict and return attacks. 

And yet, for some reason, he’s on the defensive. Isn’t pushing back against the rain of blows, is just turning them away. He makes two ploys with Bungee Gum and both are dodged, Rye rolling like a gymnast and rising smoothly to his feet. 

It seems to be a fairly even match, but after several minutes of sparring Rye still hasn’t revealed his Nen ability, while Hisoka’s attacks haven’t been successful. Now is the time for Rye to turn the tables. 

And, as if reading her mind, he does. He pulls his knife from his boot, launches himself forward, gathers speed and then hurls himself into the air. He throws the knife, and Hisoka swats it away easily with his left hand. 

Then he takes a step back. There’s a blade in his left shoulder, blood welling up and pouring down over his biceps. Fey blinks. There was a second blade in the shadow of the first; what appeared to be one knife was actually two. 

“Use _Gyo_ ,” hisses Sotto, and she does. She can suddenly see the line that runs from the knife’s grip up into the air. There’s a balloon-like object floating there with one word written on it: _Inactive._

“Now I take your Nen,” announces Rye, calmly, as the word on the balloon switches over to _Active_. And, like a light being flipped, Hisoka stumbles forward. Fey’s breath catches in her throat. It’s like a wet cloth has been dragged over a drying oil painting, making a blurred mess of the picture. Hisoka’s mouth and nose disappear, as does his right foot and most of his left hand. His bare skin is covered in scars. He’s transformed from something sleek and deadly to something decrepit and disabled. 

Beside her, Dad makes a low, anguished noise. She can’t look at him, though, because she’s too busy watching Rye dart forward again. This time Hisoka can’t return the hail of blows, can only dodge clumsily, ineffectively. Without his right foot he can’t run or kick, can only turn his swerves into heavy rolls from which he struggles to emerge. On his hands and knees he makes to rise, but Rye stomps on his good hand, the snap of fingers audible to Fey. Hisoka swivels, kicking with both legs, but Rye jumps over and snaps his knee up. It catches Hisoka under the chin, strong enough to lift him off the ground and throw him backwards like a ragdoll. He hits the ground hard and for a moment lies motionless. 

The crowd is cheering, gawkers yelling and screaming, but all Fey can hear is the sound of her racing heart in her ears. “Get up!” she shouts, back stiff, feet braced flat on the ground. 

Hisoka’s eyes open; his head turns to stare into the stands where they’re sitting. There’s blood running freely from the ruin of his face, his teeth stained pink with it; it froths down his front. He’s at least twenty meters away, and at this distance it’s hard to make out who he’s looking at. With the bright arena lights, he’s probably not able to see anyone in the stands. 

And yet, she knows he’s met Dad’s gaze. 

A moment later Rye is on top of him, crushing the air from his lungs with a knee and wrapping his strong hands around Hisoka’s scarred neck. 

“Fight him!” she shouts. “Hisoka!”

“C’mon, _c’mon_ ,” yells Sotto beside her. 

To her left, Dad says absolutely nothing. On the arena floor, Hisoka’s hand twitches. Nothing more. He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t protest. Without lips it’s hard to tell, but she thinks – she knows – he’s smiling. 

The air is full of sound, so thick she can’t hear herself think. And yet somehow – it’s her imagination, she’s sure – she can hear the last rattles of his breath. The world balances on the edge of a precipice. 

Then his hand goes limp. 

“ _No_.” The single word slips from her lips like a raindrop from the tip of a leaf, landing silently. 

On the platform Rye lets him go. He grabs his knife, jerks it loose from Hisoka’s shoulder, and lays it against his throat.

Fey doesn’t see Dad move, but all of a sudden he’s there, his hand on Rye’s wrist. “That’s enough,” he says. And then, soft but steel-hard: “He’s dead.”

In that moment, Fey hears the heart-break in his voice. 

“No interference permitted,” shouts the ref, running up. But Rye stands, taking the knife and slipping it into his boot. Dad releases his hand and steps back. His silhouette is cold, hard, like a dead tree against the January sky. 

“Victory to Rye! Hisoka is defeated! Rye earns his seat as the new Floor Master,” proclaims the announcer’s voice from on high, her words echoing over the cheering crowd. “This is the dawn of a new era for Heaven’s Arena!”

But as Fey stares at Hisoka’s lifeless body on the floor, she can’t understand a single word.

  
***  


It’s Sotto who leads her out and away from the cameras, kind, sweet Sotto who’s suddenly rock-hard while she wavers, and how does _that_ make sense? She clings to him, though, as he walks her out of the arena and down the back hall that leads to their apartment.

No. Hisoka’s apartment. The apartment that is now no longer theirs. Will never be theirs again. They haven’t just lost him, they’ve lost their home. 

Dad isn’t there. She runs through the rooms looking for him, calling him like a lost little girl instead of the head-strong young woman she is. Sotto leans against the island, staring into space. 

“I don’t understand,” she says, staring at the door as though her parents might walk through it at any moment. As though their lives hadn’t just been shattered. 

“He knew it was going to happen. That’s why he brought us home,” says Sotto softly. “I should have seen it coming. I should have stopped him.”

“How could he just… _give in_?”

Sotto looks up slowly. “In a way, he’s always craved death.”

“Don’t be ridiculous – he wanted power. It’s all he’s ever wanted. How could he get tired of it?”

“I think he’s been tired of it for a long time, Fey-Fey. Just like Dad’s been tired of being tied down. This way…”

“Don’t you dare say it’s better for them. Hisoka is everything to Dad! How could he just _give in?_ ” she demands again, eyes flashing. 

“It was the only way to stop. He’s made too many enemies to retire. They would come after him – or us.” His fingers twitch and she glances at the pinky – the one with the scar. “He was protecting us.”

“Don’t! Don’t make him out to be – noble, or kind. He’s none of those things. He’s…” her throat closes, her face hot and her eyes liquid. “He can’t be gone,” she whispers. 

Sotto draws her into a hug, and she feels the tears come.

  
***  


They have no idea how long the Arena will give them to clear the apartment, so they pack. A family of Hunters is nothing if not practical, even in the face of death. She and Sotto both moved most of their stuff out years ago when they left the nest, so there’s just Dad and Hisoka’s things. It’s mostly clothes – the two of them always travelled light, never bringing home knickknacks. Fey packs Dad’s things away in suitcases, while Sotto shoves Hisoka’s into boxes they order from the front desk.

She wonders if Dad would want to keep anything of his mate’s, a shirt, a jacket, something with his scent. They don’t even have rings. All they’ve ever needed was each other. 

She wishes she knew where Dad was.

  
***  


The text comes through to Sotto’s phone around dinner time when they’ve finished packing and are sitting in a kind of half-shock in the living room. It’s Dad.

 _Meet me here_ , it says, followed by a set of coordinates. On the continent, but far from the city. Close to the ocean, and far from civilization. Where he’s gone to mourn. 

They haul the bags down and rent a car, loading up the back. Sotto drives, Fey beside him staring out at the landscape. It shifts from city to farm to scrubland, then slowly to thick coastal forests. Sotto has a GPS on his phone and she gives directions as the hours pass and the sun drifts low on the horizon. 

It’s past nine when they stop in a tiny town for a late dinner, neither very hungry. They’re close now; only a few more miles to go. 

The last of the road is through the forest itself, the tall pines rising on either side of the road and blocking out the remains of the sun. They drive in darkness, the headlights cutting through the gloom. A low mist has settled in like a blanket, thick and glowing white in the high-beams. It feels like the ends of the earth, like a place lost to time. 

They know when they’ve arrived because the road simply stops. There’s a cabin to the left with smoke rising from the chimney and a clearing to the right with a small hatchback parked haphazardly on the dirt. They pull up next to it and get out. The air smells clean, of dew and pine and green things growing. Somehow she feels lighter here than she did in the city, even in the oppressive darkness. 

The cabin door opens as they climb the steps onto the porch, buttery light pouring out. Dad’s standing in the doorframe, his posture casual. He comes out and draws them both into a hug, pulling them in close. “I’m sorry,” he says, but his voice is contrite, not grieving, and she smells no trace of loss in his scent. 

“I’m not,” says Hisoka. 

Fey yelps and pushes Dad back. In the doorway behind him Hisoka is standing, dressed in jeans and a loose t-shirt. His body is pristine, no trace of bruises or blood. 

She stares for a long, slow minute as her breathing adjusts. Then: “You absolute _asshole_ ,” she snarls, and steps forward to punch him. He catches it and moves with her, letting her momentum carry her towards him.

Then he pulls her into a tight hug. “Nice to see you too, pup,” he says into her hair. 

She squirms away, thumping him once hard on the chest. “I thought you were dead! I packed your _stupid clothes_ for you!”

“Actually, I did that,” says Sotto mildly, stepping in behind them. Dad comes in last and closes the door, the cabin warm from a crackling wood fire. 

It’s a small, rustic, one-room affair with a bed against one wall and a tweed-covered sofa against the other; sink and gas ring in the back. Somehow she knows that someone made this with their own hands; she suspects Dad. It reminds her a little of the lodges he used to take her to when she was little and he was teaching her how to fish, to snare rabbits and clean pheasants. Skills learned in his own childhood, skills that were absolutely useless in Heaven’s Arena. He had always been so eager to get back to nature, always more relaxed out under a wide sky with a campfire roaring. 

“We shouldn’t have tricked you,” says Dad, “But we didn’t know it would come off. We didn’t know it would even make sense to try. But we’ve both been tired with our lives in Heaven’s Arena for… a long time, really. It was safe, and it met our needs, but it wasn’t what we wanted.”

In a way, it hurts. He had hinted the night before that neither of them was quite happy with their lives at the Arena, but to know that they’ve been trudging through a colourless existence for the sake of their oblivious children… _We never wanted to hold you down_ , she thinks. Shame kindles briefly, and to chase it away she embraces anger instead. “So what, you just faked your death and moved off the grid?”

Hisoka sinks down to sit on the edge of the bed. Despite his pristine appearance he smells of blood; clearly not everything had been an act. 

“Oh, no. I died. But to the Grim Reaper, death is but a dream.” Hisoka smiles benevolently. 

He’s a born liar, as is she. It takes one to know one, and usually she can see the shape of his lies if not the finer details. But here, for once, she senses only the truth. It makes her shiver. Surely he hasn’t conquered death – Dad must have shocked him with an AED, or something. Surely. “This way, we may start a new life as we choose,” continues Hisoka calmly. 

“A new life without us?” she asks. “Or are you expecting that we’re going to be out there building our own cabins in the next clearing?”

Dad looks a little hurt, but Hisoka is unphased. “Neither, smart-alec. I may be dead to the world – in fact, I must be. But to this family, I am always within call.”

Dad leans up gently against Hisoka. “We’ll still be there if you need us. We’ll keep in touch. Just… carefully.”

“What will you do?” asks Sotto, before she can reply.

“Just enjoy our freedom, to start with,” says Dad, crossing over to sit next to his mate. “Hunt, fish, live off the land. Then maybe some Hunter work. Who knows? That’s the point: we can do what we want. But for it to work, your father has to stay dead.”

Sotto nods; Fey sighs. She looks to her father, standing tall and smug, and points a finger at him. “I’m not just forgiving you, you know. You could have told us.”

“Mm. It’s never a bad thing to remember we’re all fallible. Even you. Even me.”

“I don’t give up,” she retorts. 

His smile is calm, with just a hint of pride. “No. You don’t.”

She throws her hands up. “You’re utterly impossible, you know that?”

Hisoka laughs and for the first time in years, she’s glad to hear it. Not that she lets it show. 

“I guess this means you’ll be wanting your clothes back,” says Sotto, glancing at his father’s surprisingly informal clothes. 

“Not,” begins Dad, but Hisoka cuts in before he can finish. “Without a doubt,” he says, grinning.

Dad sighs, but he rests his head on Hisoka’s shoulder all the same. 

END


	2. Epilogue: After the Storm

It hurts. So much more than he remembered, so much more than he had thought it would. It’s hard to stay standing, his hand pressed against his aching heart, his heart that feels like it’s shredding itself to pieces inside his chest. He’s dizzy, his breath coming in short bursts and his heart hammering in his temples. He can’t break down here, but all he wants to do is to cry, to scream, to bury his face in his mate’s neck and take comfort in the remains of his scent. 

Instead, Gon walks calmly behind the litter bearing Hisoka down to the morgue. 

The doctor certified him dead – no pulse, no breath, no brain activity – on the floor of the arena, just as she’s certified so many of his opponents. Now it’s just a matter of coffins and cremations. 

At least, those are the thoughts he shows. He asks for time to sit with Hisoka in the cold room, his mate transferred to a steel gurney, blood slowly drying on his pale skin, on the blackened remains of his lips. He tells them that he’ll arrange for the body to be removed and buried. The men nod and disappear; they’ve seen it all before. 

Hisoka is still as he never was in life, his body warm now but already cooling. Gon weaves their fingers together, holds his hand pressed palm to palm, and leans forward to rest his forehead against Hisoka’s chest. He feels empty, like he’s been cut open and everything’s fallen out onto the floor in a wet, gory mess. He can hardly breathe the pain is so intense, the panic backing to grief that bites bone-deep like a wolf. He can hear himself keening, the sound high-pitched, horrified. 

He can’t hold onto a single spark of comfort here in this frozen wasteland, can’t feel any hope despite the fact that he knows – _knows_ – that Hisoka’s plan is a good one. His heart is broken, and right now what he knows is that it can never be whole again. 

Gon closes his eyes and feels his tears squeezing out onto his cheeks, feels them roll hot and salty down to dampen Hisoka’s chest. 

“Hisoka?” he whispers, voice just a sliver of its usual whole. He’s shattered, is lying in a million pieces and the only person who can pick them up is dead before him. “Hisoka, _please_.”

Silence. Only the sounds of his own breaths in the large empty room, and the reminder that he’s the only one breathing. 

“If you don’t come back, I’m coming after you,” he says, tongue heavy. “Hisoka? I mean it, I –” his voice cracks and his teeth snap shut on the backbone of a sob. “Come home,” he pleads. 

His heart beats once, twice, each thump driving agony into his chest like nails. 

Then, with a sound he’ll never forget, Hisoka’s spine twists up as his whole body jolts and he sucks in a deep breath of air. His eyes open a moment later, hazy, confused. Gon pulls his hand to his cheek as he watches colour and life flood back into his mate’s face. Warmth pours back into Gon, too, relief and joy searing away the frigid touch of grief. “You came back,” he says, nuzzling Hisoka’s pale hand. 

“Of course.” Hisoka’s voice is gruff, rough-edged from recent strangulation. He rolls his head on the steel gurney to look at Gon. “Death is a fascination of mine. And yet somehow, in all these years, it’s never managed to become quite as fascinating as you.”

Smiling through his tears, Gon leans down and kisses him. 

THE REAL END

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to write the end of Hisoka's time as a floor master, and went back and forth on whether to kill him off or not. In the end, I was too weak to do it. Also wanted to explore Hisoka's children's perception of him, while having my cake and eating it too when it came to Gon's reaction to his death/resurrection...
> 
> Hope you enjoyed :D


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